Heads Up

Make sure that you read all the fine print before signing any endorsement deals. Unbeknownst to me, by accepting the financial assistance of the AHP Changagi Party Meats Company, I also agreed to cover any shifts missed at their North Platte plant and processing facility, and Gary's been out for a couple of weeks now on his honeymoon. I have to pull a double shift on the days when Wayne's gone for his dialysis. It's been tough work, but you can literally taste the results of my hard work.


Mention this blog post at your local AHP Changagi Party Meats Company retailer and receive $1.00 off your purchase of new Glizzards: the genetically hybridized flesh product that *doesn't* skimp on flavor!

Sheila, My (ex) Girlfriend: Catfish, "Skills as a Lover"

Being an aficionado with a pulpit naturally makes me something of a celebrity. Accordingly, this also makes me a target for attacks of character. I would normally just ignore these verbal assaults, but one such recent slander cannot go unaddressed. Recently, in her blog, and on a note posted to the fridge, my (ex) girlfriend, Sheila, reviewed my abilities as a lover. I've decided to respond by doing what I do best: writing my own review (of her review).

First off, Sheila, how is it that your audience is supposed to accept any of your rhetoric as fact when you are so closely tied to your subject? Objectivity called, and said it'll call back later at a more convenient time. I meant to give you the message earlier. Anyway, it's the same reason that nobody believes Billy Corgan when he writes about how great the newest Zwanshing Pumpkins album is coming along. Secondly, while you claim that I was a "less than mediocre partner", let me remind you that a dancer is only as good as his partner, and a guitarist is only as good as the instrument he plays. If the only thing he can afford is some misshapen, Communist-made, second hand piece of-- I apologize; I allowed my emotions to get the better of me there for a second. As a professional, I should know better.

Also, Sheila, you make certain accusations regarding the "enormity" of my "love." I would like to point out that length does not necessarily equal quality. I think we can all agree that Sandinista! would have been better as an EP than the 3-LP version that was released by The Clash. My EP has satisfied many* a listener!

Oh, who are we kidding, Sheila? This is ridiculous! We belong together, like Mick and Keith, like John and Paul, like Courtney Love and disorder. We're like Sid and Nancy, but without all the heroin and murder/suicide. Also, you were never a prostitute.** At the very least we can both agree that I could play bass as well as, if not better than, Sid Vicious.

Come back home, Sheila, and I'll give you the only piece of meat that the AHP Changagi Party Meats Company doesn't offer*** (at unbeatable low, low prices): my heart.

* Not many
** Pending confirmation
*** Coming Soon: Mechanically Separated Catfish Heart!

David Fricke: Dave Matthews Band, "Big Whiskey and the GrooGrux King"

David Fricke is a living legend. I say this because of the following:

1. David Fricke is alive
2. I saw David Fricke on television.

Certainly, my standards aren't unreasonably high, but on this subject, I think we can all agree that we are in agreement. Because of Fricke's godlike status, I was quite excited to sit down and read his latest review of the Dave Matthews Band's new release, "Big Whiskey and the GrooGrux King," in Rolling Stone magazine. But lately there has been an alarming trend, an unholy abomination, in the music reviewing industry, and it is a fad that Mr. Fricke's latest review has fallen victim to.

More frequently publishers are putting profits before the quality of their product. In order to save a few pennies, these "fat cats" are sending their periodicals to print on low-quality, sub-standard papers, slathered with inferior inks. Some periodicals have even ceased to publish a physical copy, and, instead, exist strictly on the world wide net! Just like pornographers and boat shoe merchants [ED. Le Review Revue produces a solitary print issue on a monthly basis. It is printed on a papyrus handmade by indigenous virgin women, with wood pulp harvested under a blue moon by their immaculately conceived virgin children--the ink is a formula made up of one part atrament, one part walnut oil, one part Ernest Hemingway blood, and one part secret! Each monthly issue is then sent to the Library of Congress for archival purposes].

Now I've tried going the digital route and reading one of these online rags, but I was incapable of doing so. Quite literally, I assure you. Does that say "amazing" or "dog turd"?

I.
Don't.
Know.

All my eyes see are a mass of squiggles (and a sailboat if I squint before crossing my eyes and looking beyond the center point). Is this what is supposed to pass for text these days? There's no depth! No feeling! No warmth! There's no emotional connection between writer and reader. It's like the goddamned terminator telling us what he thinks about Justin Timberlake's latest offering. If we can't trust machines to not try to kill John Connor, then how can we expect them to provide us with an entertaining, yet insightful, take on "Dick in a Box"?

Maybe I'm just old-fashioned, but I want a review I can hold in my hands, feel, and then cut out the semi-pornographic photos from for use during private hour happy-happy fun time. Something with a minimum 37 lb. bond. You can keep your digital robot words; this printophile will keep on reading and producing his craft with tried and true and analog equipment.

Unfortunately, I'm unable to give the content of David Fricke's review of the Dave Matthews Band's "Big Whiskey and the GrooGrux King" any kind of rating. However, I do feel that I am justified in awarding this bastard technology Edith Hannam.